When in Rome
by Demyrie
Summary: Wilbur has a history report or so he says. His father has a time machine. Carl, apparently, now has a dress, and while dragged alongside our two favorite, togadonning Robinsons in Ancient Rome, comes to an interesting conclusion: this was not smart.


A/N: AWWWWWWW. I, uh, think. Regardless, MAN do I love some MtR!

Time-travel father-son fictionnnnn! AWWW! This was mainly written for Carl's various snarks. God knows how it got started: how I EVER began pondering the necessary disguises for Carl as he followed young Wilbur and Cornelius around through their time-traveling adventures… I have no idea.

Somehow, I thought about Rome. Somehow, I thought about Carl conveniently posing as Cornelius' shrouded Roman wife. Awkwardness (luscious, hilarious awkwardness) ensued. I had to write a fic. Here I am.

A true Robinson story with a moral. Yuck—I know, right? Pretty cheesy: just sit back and don't forget your crackers so you can take the simplistic, cheesy cheese and smile. Because that's what MtR is all about! (Although I think the image of a 'wet, screaming spider-monkey' is hellaciously inspired. … You'll see what I mean.)

ENJOY.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When in Rome

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Being a child was tricky business. There were rules and regulations that one had to follow in order to toe the lines and still have fun. However, all good children (not necessarily morally sound children, but rather children that are skilled at _being_ children) know that interrupting one's parent during a time-consuming and involving task is more likely to yield a positive answer to a preposterous request than if said adult were to be given a proper amount of time to consider said request, and thus form an appropriate (and often life-preserving) answer.

"Please-please-_please_, Dad!"

"Absolutely not!"

Unfortunately, Cornelius was sharper than most dads of his time. And most of all, he _knew_ Wilbur. The tall scientist resettled his glasses on his nose and pushed his ergonomic chair from the table: it swiveled automatically with an agreeable sound, and he faced his pouting son directly, project abandoned on his workbench behind him. Wilbur screwed up his round face and whined.

"_Whyyyyyyyy_?"

His project could sit there for hours: he didn't care. This was far, far more serious than a tri-focal self-adjusting magnifier.

"Wilbur, there is no era in _existence_ more delicate and potent than that! You're asking me to traipse back into the nuclear foundational hotspot of our European roots as we _know_ it, where a misplaced _sneeze_ could upset the balance and demolish a few hundred Latin classics and land us all in a dictatorship… for an _elementary school report_?" Cornelius slapped his high forehead, then flung his hand out exasperatedly. "Wilbur, have you even _heart_ of the internet? It may be outdated, it's a lot easier than time-travel!"

"But you're my best friend! We're s'posed to stick together," Little Wilbur said archly, crossing his equally little arms. Cornelius shook his head once, pointing an inflexible finger at his son.

"You can't pull that on me," he said flatly, arching an eyebrow.

Wilbur had been infatuated with the idea of a time machine for the longest time—which, in 'kid' time, was the full however-many months since Cornelius had crafted the machine. First, he approached the subject with the full, boisterous confidence only possible in a 9 year old, simply knowing that his dad would go along with it: and Cornelius found the tact not to choke on his toast when Wilbur tugged on his elbow, asked for the keys to the time machine because he, quoth, "missed the last five minutes of Captain Time Travel".

Perhaps he found a cute irony in the situation. Cornelius did not, and rebuffed all future efforts with the same speech: Time-continuum is sticky business, and I don't want you stuck. But never before had Wilbur come up with so grand a speech to put his concerned-parental limits to the test.

Now, they weren't just talking Captain Time Travel. They were talking Interest in Academics.

"But Daaad! At least I'm interested, right? It's not _just_ a report, neither!" Wilbur sputtered through the generous gap in his teeth, drawing an arm across his chin as his exuberance got a little out of control. He waved both arms insistently. "This could pull my grades out of the hole and lemme redeem myself in front'a Mr. McGillicutty!"

That startled a pause out of his father, who eyed him for a moment.

"You've never talked about redemption before…" he said softly, touching his chin and turning his son's tempting gem of new vocabulary over in his mind.

"So you can see how serious I am! I could get this so, so good. I did some dumb things in that class, and I wanna fix 'em!" He sighed theatrically, normal, canary-yellow energy seeming to drain out of him, and pool beneath his little red sneakers. He looked up at his dad in defeat. Big-eyed, watery, pigeon-toed-with-little-red-sneakers defeat.

"I just want a day. I won't touch anything, I swear it. Help me do this report… please?"

It didn't matter that, far back in his preteen years (and at least four years into Wilbur's future) that Cornelius Robinson had already heard Wilbur's "bad choice" pitch—and it was decidedly better last time. The point was, it worked then, and it most certainly worked now, and Wilbur knew it (or rather, would know it). His dad always was a sucker for the good in people, and he had an endless supply of hope in his only son. Dangerously endless.

So much so that disrupting the time stream and causing a cultural holocaust was… a disturbingly minimal threat if it got his only son interested in school.

Therefore, Wilbur strained and twisted to keep his mouth and eyes demure and hopeful as Cornelius made an annoyed, yet considering noise through his long nose. Wilbur counted the steps of his father's surrender: a hand through his stubborn blond hair, which paused at the back of his head for a moment; the fact he cleaned his glasses, put them in his pocket, then shoved them back on his face, then leaned back in his chair until his nose was turned toward the ceiling. All this was accompanied by (or rather, orchestrated to) the methodical, mindless click of the pen in his hand.

Finally, Cornelius turned around, chair whirring disagreeably. He never did like to face his son when he knew he'd been unfairly won over, especially against his better scientific judgment.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," he said miserably, the statement as self-explanatory as one could get.

Little Wilbur hopped up and thrashed in the air, squealing under his breath.

"But Wilbur? Wilbur Robinson."

He turned again, and his son straightened into a respectable, meek young man in seconds. Cornelius waved his finger.

"We're not going alone."

"Awww, _man_!"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Wilbur's pointy-nosed profile snapped around, eyes and mouth wide open as if to inhale Rome as a whole.

Cornelius fiddled with the sideways swatch of flax that constituted his toga, securing it over his pale shoulder. He felt awkward, seeing as he wasn't used to exposing his pasty scientific underbelly on too many occasions: he was a man of mind, not of muscle and frequent visits to the beach. Still, the little slip of a boy he called his own seemed perfectly at home in the arrangement, red knees peeking out beneath the unfinished, flapping hem of his toga as he ran back and forth, skinny and blessed with a natural olive color. Franny's side of the family.

"Wow! Woooah! _Wow_!"

Cornelius, smiling, made the last few checks on the time-machine: it was fully invisible, and hidden well near an aqua-duct. Giving it a (perhaps apologetic) pat, he walked out into the cobbled street where Wilbur was darting to and fro, and caught his inquisitive son in the middle of a dilemma.

Wilbur, aghast, pointed at two elderly men passing by, generous Republic guts testing the bounds of their togas.

"Don't point," Cornelius told him exasperatedly, tucking Wilbur's hand back down. Nine-year-olds, he swore.

"Do those guys wear anything under that?" Wilbur asked with a small mouth. Cornelius chuckled.

"Are you?" He asked lightly, and Wilbur's eyes grew wide and betrayed. His brow twitched in comical indecisiveness: as though, while he may be feeling a pleasant breeze, it was entirely not okay for anybody else, especially older and fatter anybodies. Then, as if to distract himself from the gross thought, Wilbur's finger stabbed at a nearby fountain.

"Can I go over there?"

Cornelius judged the distance, then nodded.

"Alright, but no farther."

"_Kay_."

The father of Robinson Industries watched his son run off, hyper and haphazard, and flinched only slightly when an outraged wail shook the wall of leaves behind him.

"_Cornelius Lewis Robinson_."

Struggling out from behind a tree, Carl (Project C4 R1, actually, but that was merely where Cornelius got the _idea_: Carl was… simply Carl) stomped towards the now-smiling Cornelius with muted clanks, obviously not happy with his new array of attire.

Goldenrod robes, most common of the time period Cornelius had strenuously researched, hung in layers from his creation, tucked to the left in a decidedly female fashion and fastened with a shell brooch. The robe encased his skinny robot limbs entirely, but failed to hide the disgusted expression on his metal face.

"Well, well," Cornelius chuckled appraisingly. "Aren't you a beauty, Carl."

Carl fumed briefly at his creator—it looked like he had a million questions to drive into Cornelius' throat like so many needles, but settled flatly for the most important one.

"Thank you, Mr. Robinson. Why am I here?" He asked, too sweetly for comfort. Cornelius rolled his eyes.

"Because I need you."

Carl's gum-rubber lips snapped closed, and he seemed to boil like a teapot; his antennae wiggled alarmingly.

"You _tell_ me you resisted coming here under the possibility that you might change history with a _human_ action—and now you're willing to bring a _robot_ to ancient _Rome_?" He squawked, both hands flying to his head and latching there with a sharp clank. His digitalized eyes shrank, dwindling with conceptual agony as his knees rattled and swayed. "Ya think that's not gonna ruffle up a few seeds of history, buddy!? Animated inanimate object, Cornelius: they're gonna tear me apart! They'll call demon on me!"

"You're the only one I can trust, Carl."

Cornelius lowered his voice, glancing over at his son splashing at the water.

"Wilbur is finally interested in something for school; we're just going to be here for a day. Not even," he said yet softer, to remedy the betrayed jitter of his robot's limbs. "Enough to show him that I'll do anything to help him enjoy school and succeed."

"Ohhh, yeah. Oh yeah, real heart-warming. Uh-huh," Carl simpered, nodding sarcastically. He rolled his eyes as he began to walk off, robes swaying placidly around his skinny limbs. "Five points for Cornelius' and Wilbur's fuzzy relationship, _negative three-thousand_ for the human race! Yeeeah, don't even _ask_ me for the statistics of things to go wrong, just kiss the Republic goodbye while you're here…"

Carl was almost at the edge of the cobbled road when he stopped. He seemed ready to walk off entirely, but, perhaps realizing that they were indeed in ancient Rome with no place to go but home, to which Cornelius held the keys… he turned around, cornflower eye displays reduced to slits. He glared at the innocent blond man, and _waited._

"Yes, Carl?" Cornelius prompted him mildly.

"One thing, Cornelius. Why the dress?"

"Why not? Do you dislike the dress?" Cornelius asked, amusement sullying his falsely diplomatic voice.

"Yes!" Carl whined furiously.

"Why?" He asked his creation pragmatically, smartly picking up where Carl could only flap his rubber lips. "You have no gender differentiation, therefore you shouldn't be upset about a female-specific item of clothing. There's no paradigm to offend, Carl."

"I _know_! This isn't about embarrassing a _boy_ robot," Carl smarted off after a second of dense silence, fists wiggling in the air. "It's about embarrassing a _robot_ in general!"

"And?" Cornelius prompted him, long face handsome and knowing as he watched the robot sputter, then fall silent.

"The color makes me look like a teakettle…" Carl whimpered brokenly, pressing one ball-joint palm to his cheek. "A cheap tea-kettle."

He looked incredibly vulnerable, standing there in his orangey robe… and beyond that, he had certainly—most certainly—been spending far too much time with Tallulah. Cornelius sighed, but it was not a bad sound. Just a little understandably disgusted. He started towards his whiny robot, whose shoulder-joints were sagging beyond reason.

"Well, our goal is that you aren't seen," he reassured Carl, untying and fondly tugging an equally golden-rod veil over his face to complete the disguise. "So the shroud of a respectable wife of the Republic is perfect for you."

He had to admit, when the robot stood perfectly still and didn't move in his bandy-legged, sea-sick walk… he looked very human. Wilbur, of course, took that time to return from the fountain and run circles around Carl, pointing and laughing at his friend and nanny.

"Hahaaaaa! Nice dress, Carl!"

Carl's hackles rose full force again, and he put his hands on his hips with a dull clank.

"You keep that mouth to yourself, mister! I didn't ask to come here and cross-dress for your sake!"

Skipping Carl's already-debunked gender logic glitch, Cornelius frowned slightly and turned to Wilbur.

"Now, Wilbur. What Carl's wearing is an important part of Roman life," he told his son seriously, gesturing to the robot. "You see, back in this time, women weren't allowed to do the same things as men—"

"_Hey_! Look at that! Woah!" Wilbur shouted suddenly, bolting off without a word to follow a horse and a cart carrying a large load of fabric. Utterly distractible.

Cornelius watched him run off, exasperation fracturing his patience, but was content with the knowledge that he'd have the whole day to fill Wilbur's head with a slice of Roman life: one that he could write an amazing report on, and thereby discover the rewards of hard work and not falling asleep in class. Or tugging on Ms. Pakowski's pigtails until she screamed. He followed, cupping a hand to his mouth to keep out the formidable grey dust the wagon kicked up.

"Come on, darling."

Carl, nearly forgotten, bristled as Cornelius called back to him in a swooning tone. Oh, he saw how this would go. Didn't know why he didn't expect it from the start. Carl picked up the hem of his ill-colored robes and marched after the two Robinsons, muttering all the way.

The things he did for this family.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It was an impressive amount of time before Wilbur was soundly lost.

Of course, this did not happen through any error of judgment on his father's part: save from the first, fatal error of bringing his ADHD protégé to Rome in the first place, Cornelius was an attentive father, and only gave up holding his very grown-up son's hand after the sixth time Wilbur had dashed it back and whined so loudly that people turned to look. He wanted Wilbur to stay close: Wilbur wanted the exact opposite.

At a fork in the road, along with the assistance of a well-placed squabble and a market stall crash, Wilbur was gone.

Cornelius tried to dredge him out of the crowd. He tried dearly and fervently, pushing people aside and calling his son's name, hoping he was close at hand. Little did he know that Wilbur had planned this, and had darted off towards the middle of town and the awaiting coliseum. Conversely, once free of his father's annoying control and fully stranded in the middle of a dusty, noisy street, it was an unimpressive amount of time before Wilbur realized he had no idea where to go.

He tapped his foot, unconsciously falling into time with 'Time is but a Place', Captain Time-Travel's theme-song.

He wanted to see the horse races: his teacher had showed a movie about it, with the guys in their armor fighting and going so fast, and it looked _so_ cool, and he knew he could never get in trouble with his dad… not real trouble anyways. His dad was too cool for that, and loved him too much. But still, since Dad probably wouldn't have said _yes_, something had to be done… Still disconcerted, Wilbur plucked at his toga, looking for someone his age—but they all seemed terribly busy, lugging water pots into different buildings and making stuff. He skulked on down the cobbled road, squinting ahead for any sign of the much-desired coliseum. Like trumpets or loud noises.

If he noticed the streets getting progressively more suspicious, ever-confident Wilbur gave no sign of it. He strutted through the social gutters of Rome with his cool sandals and his awesome dress-thing (squirming at the fact that he _wasn't wearing undies_ and Rome was so worth it just for that), and only stopped when he noticed that a lady was watching him. She was pretty, in a way, and stood out due to the luscious maroon shade of her toga. She watched him over her shoulder, her pointed features slightly expectant. He looked down, finger crammed into his mouth, and caught sight of her shoes. In Rome's strange, cramped language, they, quite literally, said 'Follow Me'. At first, his face screwed up, and he read them again, drawing foggily on the mandatory crash-course in Latin all 3rd graders of the future were required to take. Then, slowly, things began to click.

Maybe she knew where his father was.

Now, this may seem a naïve and baseless hope, even from a nine-year-old. To connect a cryptic message on a pair of woman's shoes to a hope of being led to his father is not a normal thought process for any youth. However, Wilbur's upbringing had been different from most.

After all, shoes didn't normally say things—and Wilbur had been trained to look for the weirdest kinds of signs from his family. Picking up his feet, he loped off after the woman in red, humming a song from thousands of years into the future.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"I can't believe we lost him," Cornelius moaned, hand to his forehead.

Rome churned around them, louder and dirtier than the textbooks claimed. Somewhere in that mess, Wilbur pushed his way through knees, probably getting himself into more trouble than his father could imagine. The opportunities for disaster were _endless. _ Cornelius stood on the edges of a court, scaling the pillar-stands to see into the crowd. Carl lurked by him, and while he had been chattering furiously at himself before, he now took that moment to hone in on Cornelius, whose face was paling by the moment.

"Oh, I can. I can most _certainly_ believe we lost him. In fact, I'm surprised we didn't lose him at the fountain! I'm telling you, Cornelius, this was a _bad_, _bad_ choice for a guy as smart as you--_not_ one of your best days," he fumed, stomping back and forth. "I know you have my creation to your credit, but this was just dumb. Really dumb. You _know_ Wilbur can't talk his way out of everything he talks his way into—"

"Carl, you're not helping," Cornelius said, too bitterly for Carl to continue. The blond scientist was consumed with parental guilt, tension, and all the panicked thoughts that come from losing sight of your kid, especially in a primordial human pool like Rome. "And may I remind you, I brought you here to _help_."

Carl toned it down, and meekly clogged to a stop behind his creator.

"I'm just worried for him, you know that," he fretted, metallic fingers knitting and unknitting beneath his robes with a slithery chain-mail sound. "A kid like that, in a place like this… He's sweet to the core, but with the slightest comment, he could--"

"Yeah, I know," Cornelius assured him, voice slightly choked. He squinted, blocking the sun with one hand. "This isn't good. Any way you look at it, it's just not good. So help me look, and let's try and make things _better_."

Cornelius stayed silent as he did just that, waiting for the human river to spit up a cowlick and a skinny boy along with it. Carl's eyes zoomed in and out, poking at his veil awkwardly. Suddenly, Cornelius took off, sandals slapping the stone, beelining towards the far corner of the square where shops stood, clustered. Carl whipped after him, robes flying every-which way, dodging people (they couldn't touch him at any speed, or else they'd realize he wasn't flesh and blood like the rest of them) and trying to sound female.

Carl managed to catch up with him in the middle of the square, even using the odd human walk, but then Cornelius made another strangled sound and forged further into the mess of people, leaving Carl (animated inanimate object, demon Carl) utterly alone.

"No, no! Corneli-- Wait! _Wait_!"

As he yelled, he accumulated odd looks from the interested passerby. Not wanting to out himself, he muttered angrily, "Fine, fine, leave me alone in a Roman town square, I'll teach—"

Then he realized that Cornelius was fast going out of range, and to be the second family member lost in a day would not be the best thing, so he made to _run_ after the frazzled scientist. Unfortunately, Cornelius had locked his elastic legs at the expanding joint, to eliminate his bow-legged walk, so his first stride was horribly stunted: he went sprawling, slamming into the stone road with an offended grunt and a horrible clang like a cheap tea-kettle dashed to the ground. Lost in the forest of feet and drawing off of some primordial, panicky programming, Carl raised a fist, drew a deep breath and yelled in his shrieky girly voice:

"Cornelius Robinson! You get _back_ here, Mister!"

In a picturesque moment of scandal, everyone around him turned and gasped in unison. He felt distinctly shocked, reviled, and, above all, like an oppressed Roman female who is not supposed to overstep her bounds. The horror of the crowd was tangible as he wiggled his way to his feet and attempted to backpedal, chuckling nervously.

"Uh, uhhh… I mean, Cornelius, dearest, would you b-bless your unworthy wife with… um…"

But they kept staring at him, and possibly—yes, after the first few steps of the brutal-looking man in front, they began walking toward him as a mob, faces twisted with various flavors of disbelief. Carl heaved a shuddering, moaning breath, muttering to himself.

"Ohhh no… now I've done it… oh geez, now I've—_Corneeeeliuuuuus_!"

The Roman social police had nearly closed in on him when Cornelius finally realized Wilbur was incredibly _gone_ from that part of town (if he had been there at all), and he was out of hope again. He looked over at his name, head hurting already, and saw the tips of Carl's sleeves wagging in the air above a dense cluster of people. Angry people.

He groaned.

Carl, back in the mob, warbled and fretted to the best of his abilities—all while attempting not to bump into anyone, and reveal his utterly tear-apartable nature.

"Come on now, folks, you seem like a civilized people… the best, from what I've heard, got a who-ole future ahead of you--talk about teachin' the entire earth a thing or two--but I think vigilante justice on a poor gal like me just idn't the way to go, 'kay? Just hang on a few thousand years of social conditioning and female rights rallies and you'll find that this is to-otally unnecessary, really--"

"How dare you speak to your husband in that way?" One Roman demanded; several others rallied to the question, growling and drifting closer to him, eyes hard and scrutinizing. Carl winced, quailing, but his mouth kept moving.

"Yeah, that is an _excellent_ question, sir, how dare me, how dare—"

Then he spotted Cornelius' dominating yellow hair and shrieks a sigh of relief, deflating and latching onto Cornelius' arm once he burst through the crowd

"Cornelius! Honey!" He chirped loudly as he could.

"Carl! … a. Carl-a," Cornelius repeated in a strangled tone, then nodded firmly to the onlookers. "Carla. There you are."

"Yeeees, yes, there I am---" Carl started in a simpering, playful tone, patting Cornelius on the chest—then gouged his metal fingers Cornelius' skinny forearm and hissed into his ear. "And just where have you been!?"

Cornelius turned his head to hiss similarly, "And just what've you started here?!"

"Ohhh, y'know, just a little bit of a riot to make your day interesting, as ya do…" Carl said sarcastically, then added vindictively, "If you would've just come back for me, I wouldn't have yelled for you!"

"You _yelled_ for me?" Cornelius gasped, eyes rolling heavenwards in horror. "Oh, _Carl_."

"Did I do a bad thing?" Carl whimpered, dabbing at his mouth from between the layers of fabric and looking around at the angry crowd.

"Just betrayed every ideal of their female social conditioning in one act."

"Oh boy," he said faintly.

Cornelius frowned for a moment, then stepped up to the crowd, shaking his head and putting on a deep voice.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, my brothers."

"Get your woman under control, stranger!"

"You must make her pay—you heard the way she spoke to you!"

Cornelius nodded quickly, flipping between sycophantic smiles and frowns.

"Yes, yes: I'll punish her soundly for her trespasses!" He bellowed, growling farcically over at Carl but trying to drag them both away at the same time. It wasn't working: the crowd was too thick. "Carla, when we get home, I swear to you—"

"Now!" The people insisted, looking to one another. "She must be made example of!"

"_Strike her_!"

Cornelius' mouth flopped open as he faced the angry crowd. Carl leaned over his shoulder and cleared his throat.

"So, uh--" he whispered casually. "You regularly bring your son to a nation of sadists?"

"Can it, Carl," Cornelius said through his teeth, glancing around. Then he seemed to come up with something, and stepped out against the (very angry, apparently) people of Rome and cleared his throat.

"Uh… I'm late for the Triumvirate already--real big court decision coming up--can't really…" he began, quickly losing speed. "Can't really abuse my wife in front of you…"

Cornelius gulped, trailing off with a twitchy attempt at a smile.

Carl nodded, fabric shifting conspicuously as his head drifted a little higher off his shoulders.

"Yeeeaah, it's kind of a private thing…" Carl began in his wandering, sheepish voice, gesturing conversationally. "We usually save it for Saturday nights: y'know, I bring the wine, he brings the bullwhip—"

"_Carl_," Cornelius snapped behind his teeth.

"Sorry, sorry—"

"At the last give her the back of your hand," a particularly burly-looking Roman demanded, glaring at the two from under his black eyebrows. Cornelius saw no way out of refusing the man's request, and breathed in heavily, stalling. He looked awkwardly between the instigator and his 'wife'—who nudged him in the side and blustered softly, encouraging in the way only Carl could be in this sort of situation:

"Go on, buddy, I won't hold it against you."

He nodded minutely. Carl really wouldn't. There was no other way out, and Wilbur was still wandering the streets alone. Time was of the essence. So, bowing to the social pressure he thanked God was null a thousand years from now, Cornelius stepped back, closed his eyes, and slapped Carl hard across the face.

Carl clanged.

He clanged like a piece of metal tossed in the street, which was not, apparently, a sound that women usually make when struck. The crowd stared. Cornelius, blood cold as ice, clutched his offending hand after a second, looking painfully sheepish.

The same man, shaking the sound from his head, started forward and made a grab for Carl out of the right side of the crowd.

"If you can't do it properly—"

He caught Carl's serpentine wrist in one fast motion: both Carl and Cornelius yelled comically, and Carl yanked himself away

"D-don't touch her! She's, uh—she's sick!" Cornelius stuttered as the man recoiled, holding his hand.

"Yeah, hands off!" Carl yelped in his warbling falsetto.

The Roman stood prodding his own fingers for a moment, then looked up as though he'd been bitten. He thrust a finger toward the now-quivering pillar of veil and toga, who clung to her husband in fear.

"She's cold as a snake!" He cried. The rest of the crowd, roused from their shock, began murmuring and gasping—and, once more, moving toward them menacingly.

"That's our cue to leeaaaaaave!" Carl wailed, grabbing Cornelius and heaving him onto his back in one jerky stroke. Cornelius gasped and clamped his legs around Carl's middle and, against his better judgment, quickly removed the restraints on his elasticity with a flick of his fingers. Carl shot up in height tenfold, becoming a cluster of robes floating on serpentine legs. Their antagonists screamed at the commotion, and for what seemed like miles around Romans turned and stared, pointing and gasping. Carl breathed a sigh of relief and all at once charged through the crowd at lightning speed, working his bendy legs like crazy and leaving the mob behind.

Later, Cornelius was very grateful for both his bad judgment and Carl's quick eye. His decision was the only thing that saved Wilbur, who had wandered near them after failing to find the coliseum, from getting run over by a brewery wagon. Cornelius had hardly dared look up during the mad dash, fearing the sight of Western civilization as he would know it collapsing from the sight of them: when he did look up, he saw Wilbur fifty feet away, about to be killed or maimed by an oncoming brewery wagon.

Not a good day.

Before the scientist could call out in fear, Carl had thrown his elastic arm out and snapped his young son up by the scruff of his neck, yanking him screaming through the air all fifty feet and flinging him up into Cornelius' arms.

"Wilbur!" Cornelius shouted, wrapping a free arm around him as Carl swayed and ran, Rome convulsing all around them. His son, piteous brown eyes wide, stared in shock at where he'd landed, then threw his little arms around Cornelius' neck.

"Dad! Oh geez, Dad!"

"Are you alright?"

And he was. But before any more questions could be asked, Carl leapt over several buildings, scrabbled his way into the courtyard they arrived in and made sure they were all safely inside the time machine and properly invisible: heaving and panting, he asked for the permission to be shut off momentarily, so as not to blow his circuits from cumulative stress. Cornelius granted it gladly, and wished for the opportunity to do the same—especially as he faced his quiet, quivering son, who seemed to know just how epic a situation they'd gotten themselves out of.

Cornelius found it hard to speak harshly to Wilbur for running off when he was just so glad he didn't have to scrape his son off the street and find an explanation for Franny as to why he'd even _considered_ this.

"Wilbur—" He began, after taking a few hundred moments to steady himself. Wilbur, like he'd been bitten, launched into a tense, wild explanation that took several minutes to dissolve into _words._ Cornelius listened, squinting.

"—and then I couldn't find anything and then I got lost and I saw this lady and her shoes told me to follow her so I thought she might know where you were—"

"Woah-woah-woah--_what_?" Cornelius interrupted loudly, staring open-handed at his red, frightened son. "You saw a--_what_?"

Wilbur swallowed and seemed to double-check himself, looking dubiously at his open-mouthed dad.

"Her shoes. They said 'follow me'."

Cornelius processed this for a long, torturous minute.

"…What color was her toga?"

"Red."

"Oh my god. Wilbur," Cornelius moaned

"_What_! Maybe it was maroon?"

It was a moment before Wilbur realized his confident, genius father—Founder of the Future and the answer to everything--was blushing to the tops of his ears, and Wilbur shut up about it.

The 'Roman prostitute' talk definitely came after the birds and the bees. Cornelius and Wilbur weren't quite there yet. Cornelius feared the time when they would be: any father did.

But there was something wrong about this. About all of this: Wilbur running off only confirmed it. Cornelius' hand rested on the gear-stick as the redness drained from his face, replaced by a solemn white. Wilbur looked out the window.

"Wilbur," his father said. His name occupied one long, dangerous exhalation.

"Y-yeah?"

"What did you really come here to see?"

Wilbur flinched. After a second, he scratched his ear, only looking at the time-machine's retro blue upholstering.

"… Horse-races," Wilbur finally mumbled.

"_And_?"

"…Spartacus?" He squeaked.

"_Spartacus_?" Cornelius demanded, utterly vexed: his hand convulsed on the gear-stick. Wilbur shrank into the side of the time machine, hands drifting up to bunch around his neck. His father fumed for a moment more, then stilled, studying him for a rigid moment.

"Is there even a history report, Wilbur?" He asked softly.

"…No," Wilbur whispered.

Cornelius looked away and covered his eyes with a white hand. His sigh sank in the closed bubble of the time machine, making Wilbur feel a little sick as they sat there in their silly togas but it was all so serious and maybe—just maybe—he had done something really wrong this time.

And while his dad did love him, really wrong was still wrong.

"Dad…" Wilbur started imploringly—his father shook his head, ending it.

"Come on. We're going home."

Cornelius shifted the time-machine into gear, and punched in all the right information, executing several complex calculations in his sore head. The time machine reared like a sleepy balloon and lifted off just as the mob began streaming into the courtyard. Wilbur's hands never left his lap as they entered and exited the time stream, his father's silence and careful movements injuring him moment after moment.

-.-.-.-.-

The pressurized tingle of time travel left Wilbur slowly; he almost fought to keep it, as what was raging in his gut was so, so much worse in comparison. He remained in his seat as his dad mechanically set the breaks and powered down the machine with measured jerks of his hands. Then the hatch popped and eased up with a neutral hiss, and Cornelius got to his feet.

As avidly as Wilbur watched his back, Mr. Robinson acted as though his son didn't exist.

As soon as his father's feet hit the garage floor, Wilbur scrambled across the gear shifter, his hands slapping the side of the machine. He craned out the time machine.

"Dad…," he called out, weakly.

Cornlius looked back, and Wilbur wished he hadn't. The heavy look on his face as he slipped his glasses back on made the boy wish he could sink into the floor. His father's pointed shoulders had lost their strength, and he spoke softly:

"You abused my trust, Wilbur."

Wilbur winced, sickness in his tiny frame doubling. His father's bright blue eyes pinned him, never moving.

"You lied to me on two counts."

"Dad, I'm… I'm real sorry…" Wilbur whispered as hard as he could, sandals twisting against each other, shoulders mashing against his neck. In knots. He hadn't done anything _bad_, he hadn't hurt anyone, but he didn't understand why lying to his dad hurt so bad now--

Cornelius just sighed again, voice dull.

"I have to talk to your mother."

He left Wilbur hanging out of the time machine, miserable and utterly alone. His mother would come to get him an hour later, and find him curled up underneath the dash in a toga and sandals, face still red from crying.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Wilbur had been punished and grounded. "Being a Robinson is a big responsibility," his mother told him as she kneeled on the kitchen floor with one hand on his tiny shoulder, "and you have to be able to live up to it or else you'll be just like everyone else." She hugged him, and kissed his cheek, and he didn't protest for once, but she didn't help the bad feeling in his chest.

"He's not mad at you, honey," she said to him again and again as dinner went by with his dad--his chuckling dad who loved coming to school for every kind of show-and-tell day and always brought him lunch when he did--not saying much. "We're both so glad you didn't get hurt. He's just disappointed."

So five days into his 'grounding' found Wilbur in Cornelius' lab again, just like before Rome. The bandy boy approached Cornelius on kitten's feet and half-slipped a paper onto his desk, keeping it in his hand until he had some of his father's attention. The scientist looked up from his work, a practiced (and painful, every time so difficult to maintain) unresponsiveness and mistrust lingering in his face as he saw Wilbur and his offering. Carefully rising up on his toes, little Wilbur fully nudged the paper onto his desk and fell back to his heels, looking anywhere but at Cornelius' blue eyes.

"They just handed it back to us," Wilbur whispered.

Cornelius' eyebrow arched as he took the two pieces of paper, stapled at the top. He propped it up in his palm and looked at his son for one more moment, suspending any judgment before he turned his eyes to the words wandering across the page in Wilbur's messy handwriting.

_Justice, by Wilbur Robinson._

_Justice means times when bad things are made better, or bad people are in jail. It means when the right thing happens even though bad stuff happens before it. The pposite of justice is enjustice _(Cornelius' eyes flicked over the mildly reproachful mark over the e, added in red pen) _and that means bad things happen and nobody stops it. A lot of things that we think are okay today weren't okay a long time ago. In rome they had democracy just like now. _

_But too they didn't treat girls real well. Ladys had to wear really long clothes that covered there face _(another few marks, short staccatos of error, but Cornelius growing wonder blurred them out as he absorbed his son's quaint lack of eloquence, the earnestness in his text_) and they didn't get to talk to their husbands like today. They were suposed to stay quiet like a kid even though they are adults and it is very wrong. That is enjustice because bad things happen to people and everyone was okay with it and they even hit them. now justice happens because we have police and girls are just like boys except for the dresses and cooties._

Cornelius saw Carl crouching by Wilbur in the back of his mind, talking to the boy. Telling him things he couldn't have seen. Most of all, he saw—and read—the fact that Wilbur had _listened._

_But justice happened to me too. I didn't tell the truth to my dad and they say in school that that's wrong but its REALLY wrong when its your dad and hes in your house and can make you feel like you swallowed a bug all the time just by looking at you. But some kids can make there parents forget but I didn't try. I did the wrong thing but dad he did the right thing and grounded me for justice. _

Cornelius' lips twitched, and he had to close his eyes for a moment before continuing. Wilbur's simplistic, run-on sentences were weaving a rope around his throat, which constricted most earnestly when he saw his name.

Dad.

Dad is so smart, and always knows what to do so I trust him even when I hate being grounded and cant play chargeball. I love him a lot and I know he loves me too because he cant stay mad at me for a long time but he always tried to use justice so I grow up good. If everybody has a dad like my dad we would all be good people and maybe wouldn't even need police. My dad taught me that.

Throat electrified and now cinched closed, Cornelius eyes drifted down below the border the typed text to the trail of handwriting, drifting slightly uphill. A note from his teacher in purple pen.

"Very good Wilbur! This is the best report you've written—I look forward to reading more of your papers!" and then, with sparkling attention and individuality, a careful smiley-face punctuated the comment.

His callused hand tightened on the paper.

Round and proud, a large B sat on the lower half of the page. The teacher had penned fireworks around it in three different colors.

Cornelius looked up from the paper. Wilbur watched him with wide, careful eyes from the far edge of his desk. He did not smile or make light of it, small pink mouth sitting low and doubtful on his pale face. This was not a ploy to get back in his good graces. His son was somber, unsure and, above all, horribly at his mercy.

Face static, something hot and peculiar rushing through both his ears and in his heart, Cornelius took off his glasses and wiped them deftly on his coat. Wilbur, small and silent, shoved his hands in his pockets.

"There _was_ a report," he said softly. "I worked on it a long time."

Cornelius shook his head; the simple motion drove his son a footstep backward.

Wilbur let out a shivering breath and looked down, defeated.

Cornelius got up from his desk and Wilbur didn't move: the assumption hurt his father dearly. The fact that Wilbur expected him to walk on past him and leave the room…tightened his chest painfully, and made him tremble as he took Wilbur by his rounded shoulders and pilled him into a tight hug.

A second of shocked silence, and his son's arm clapped halfway around his back, embracing as much of him as the powerless little body could handle, fisting his lab coat.

"I'm so proud of you." Cornelius murmured, voice thick and tremulous. He cried now, with Wilbur's warm cheek pressed into his collar, face drawn tight with the effort of keeping silent. His large hands rubbed at Wilbur's bony back, cherishing the little person who loved him so dearly: this capricious, impulsive, condensed waif of warmth and trying joy. His son.

He had been listening the entire time.

"I'm so proud of you, Wilbur."

He heard Wilbur whimper, and squeezed him tightly. He knew what was needed.

"And I forgive you. For everything."

"I love you, Daddy…" Wilbur hiccupped miserably after a moment, fingers worrying at Cornelius' back. Closing his eyes tightly, Cornelius held his son until his high, fretful noises faded.

"I love you too," Cornelius said into his son's glossy hair as the boy nodded slowly. "So much."

Drawing back, he smeared his thumb under Wilbur's apprehensive eyes, looking him tenderly in the face.

"Next time you want to see Spartacus, we'll get the movie."

Wilbur snorted, wet and unplanned, and began to smile—then hurled himself against Cornelius with a plaintive howl. His little arms clamped with monstrous strength around his father's neck, Wilbur clinging to him to rival a wet, screaming spider monkey.

Unable to help himself, Cornelius laughed loudly and from his gut, and patted Wilbur's trembling back as the kid shamelessly purged himself of the rest of the horrible feeling called 'learning a life lesson'. Things would be better by dinner. He would be blowing milk bubbles by dessert.

That report, however, was going on his wall.


End file.
